


The Glint of Light on Broken Glass

by kaguyahime7



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Little steamy but nothing too crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 20:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13107858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaguyahime7/pseuds/kaguyahime7
Summary: Late night insomnia can bring out the best and worst of us.





	The Glint of Light on Broken Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This work is fiction and I do not own any of the characters. 
> 
> This story takes place between the 2013 Christmas special and series 3, episode 1.

The Glint of Light on Broken Glass  
Kaguyahime7

_“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” – Anton Chekhov_

_It was a dark and stormy night…_

Shelagh Turner bites back a laugh as heavy rainfall slams against the bedroom window. It’s the fifth night this month she can’t sleep and she’s running out of potential solutions for her insomnia. Tonight she’s reciting melodramatic lines from classic literature in the hope of inducing drowsiness. She notes with a cynical grin that the recommendation, courtesy of Sister Monica Joan, was always an effective technique when employed to wrangle unruly children or gullible nurses. 

A slow, steady snore resonates from the man sleeping beside her and interrupts her reverie. Her gaze strays to her very naked, very sound asleep husband, and her heart skips a beat at the sight of him. She’s still getting used to having someone sleeping next to her at night—a mischievous part of her thinks she’ll never get tired of it.

It really wasn’t so long ago that she spent restless nights in her cell at Nonnatus House, and then at the sanatorium. She frantically wondered if she had the strength to forsake her religious vows and venture into uncertainty. She’d put the idea of marriage out of her head a long time ago, for one thing. Any thoughts of having children of her own had been pushed aside and she resigned herself to being a motherly figure in other people’s lives instead. Even during her recent spiritual crisis, she trusted that God had a plan for her, and if she should suffer a little bit of loneliness every now and then, it was simply one more trial she would have to find meaning in. 

She had been content with her life until she fell in love. Content, but not happy though, and that was the crucial difference in making her decision to leave the order. The happiness she saw in her patients and their families became a painful, wistful vision filled with warmth and joy, and she was the solitary outsider gazing at them with her face pressed against a metaphorical window. She longed for a life with the wonderful, kind man who stole her heart with his gentleness and compassion. She desperately wanted to love and protect a young boy who grew up too fast just like her. And once she tasted that bit of love in her otherwise ordinary life, she couldn’t get enough and sought it fiercely and hungrily. 

She spent so many hours on her knees in the chapel at Nonnatus praying for guidance that there’s likely a permanent indention in the carpet from her litanies. Her music suffered too during her most desolate hours, and there were days that she could barely whisper her psalms without bursting into tears. She asked herself over and over again how much agony she could bear until her spirit broke. To question her life and be so uncertain about every choice she made was utterly unnerving. She lay in her bed alone, sleepless with doubt and hopelessness, and begged for courage and guidance in a sea of endless stars and moonlight. 

That last thought, she muses wryly, definitely fits the category of ‘purple prose’. She really should stop stealing Trixie’s romance novels before she turns into a walking cliché. Maybe she should try some of the stretches Cynthia recommended for restlessness instead. Or maybe there would be a sudden medical crisis that needed her attention, and she could replace her insomnia with good old-fashioned manual labor. Or maybe the rain would never cease and they’d have to start delivering maternity boxes in rowboats. She giggles at that last thought and the noise causes Patrick to sigh happily and smile in his sleep.

At least one of them is getting a well-deserved rest, and of the two of them, he was the one who really needed a good night’s sleep. They had been through so much upheaval and now they finally had some peace. Timothy endured his mother’s death, acquired a step-mother, and struggled with a devastating illness all within a remarkably short time. Tonight though, he was spending this weekend at a friend’s house. Patrick and Shelagh still worried about him trying to do too much too fast, but they relented to the sleep-over because Timothy swore not to do anything that would end with him in a plaster cast instead of his calipers. 

The past year alone had been a messy jumble of unsaid feelings, silent gazes, and gradually eroding boundaries between her and Patrick. She’d been helpless to slow down and take a look at what she really wanted until her illness and subsequent seclusion forced her to re-evaluate her life. She still didn’t have all the answers, but at least the man she loved was with her every step of the way, and the doubts about the path she chose evaporated like candle smoke as soon as she said “I do” in a church not so long ago. 

Patrick sleepily reaches for his wife’s body and stirs into a semi-conscious state when his hand grazes her thigh. He squints and flashes a crooked smile at her as another roll of thunder reverberates outside. 

“Still can’t sleep?” Patrick whispers. “Did you try those stretches Nurse Miller recommended?” 

“Not yet,” she sighs resignedly. “Tonight’s sleep aid was reciting bad examples of English prose in the hopes that my brain would shut down. The suggestion was courtesy of Sister Monica Joan.” 

Patrick groans and winces. All of the sisters have a special place in heart, especially Sister Monica Joan with her endearing eccentricities. But as fond of them as he was, they were the absolute last topic he wanted to think about when his wife’s lovely, naked backside was in eyesight.

“Well, there’s always my special prescription for insomnia…” He trails off and runs a finger down her spine, waggling his eyebrows suggestively and chuckling as her body instinctively arches into him. He leans in to kiss her, tasting a hint of fatigue and frustration from her sleeplessness, and she opens her mouth to him and indulges in a long, languid kiss. Despite the chill of the room, a surge of warmth rushes through her veins and her head feels light from the lack of oxygen. She would never admit it to anyone, not even her husband, but she used to fantasize about moments like this before they were together, dreaming of a time where she would start every morning and end each day with a kiss from him. 

She breaks away reluctantly and cocks a single eyebrow. “Is there any scientific data to support your remedy, Doctor Turner?”

“Just personal experience, Mrs. Turner,” he replies, winking and popping a single kiss on her forehead. 

Shelagh giggles and elbows his chest. “I’ve tried nearly every technique I can think of, Patrick. I suppose it’s all those late nights minding the phone and waiting on pins and needles for panicked calls. My body just can’t adjust to a regular sleep schedule after a decade of night shifts.”

“Did anything work for you in past?” He cuddles her into his chest and mindlessly twirls a lock of honey blonde hair around his finger. She settles against him, taps a finger against her chin, and thinks back to her secluded nights at Nonnatus. 

“Prayer was always a comfort when I couldn’t sleep before,” she recalls thoughtfully. 

Patrick starts laughing hysterically and she glares at him with a miffed expression. She purses her lips into a small moue as Patrick shakes with glee and squeezes her tightly against his body.

“I’m sorry, dearest, but I just imagined something rather wicked and I’m afraid of death by divine vengeance for my dirty old mind.”

She rolls her eyes and pokes him again with her elbow. “You had best tell me what it is then.” 

He’s almost in tears from laughing so hard. “I was just imagining you praying naked. I don’t mind if you want to pray sans vêtements,” he quips. 

“I don’t know what possessed me to marry such a man,” she teases. Flirting was never something that came easily to her, even before becoming a nun, but within a few short weeks she’s become a quick study in the art of romantic banter. 

“Don’t lie; you know it was my impressive culinary skills and frightfully good taste in patterned socks that made you fall passionately in love with me.” 

She tries to keep a straight face but inevitably fails after his sock-clad foot strokes her bare shin. “You are an absolute fool,” she declares. He shrugs as a sign of agreement and flips over to go back to sleep. 

“By the way, was everything all right with the girls? You all looked very hush-hush in the kitchen when we were at Nonnatus today. I thought they looked fairly upset when I came in to get you.” 

Her body tenses and he notices the change immediately. Lightning flares like a photographer’s bulb outside the window and illuminates the room with a temporarily blinding flash. The rain pounds on the roof like machine-gun fire and Patrick briefly ponders if he’ll need a boat instead of the MP to see his patients tomorrow.

“Shelagh, what is it? Did something happen?” 

She doesn’t answer him immediately and goosebumps spread across his arms. All kinds of catastrophic scenarios rush through his half-awake brain. He turns her so they’re facing each other nose-to-nose. She feels small and fragile in his arms, and he always try to be gentle when they’re together, but his instincts are ringing as loud as an alarm bell and he’s determined to get some answers. 

“You can tell me if anything’s wrong,” he prompts. “It’ll just be between us. Doctor-wife privilege, you know.” He means the last part as a joke and intends to draw her back from whatever darkness dimmed their light-hearted mood. 

“I feel so foolish bringing it up. Any normal woman wouldn’t have anything to complain about.” She removes her glasses and absently cleans the lenses with the corner of a bedsheet 

The wind howls like a wraith and whips a tree branch into the window with a resounding crash. She burrows into him like a scared rabbit and he threads his fingers through hers reassuringly. He was mildly interested about her kitchen rendezvous with the other nurses earlier, but now real concern outweighs his curiosity. He strokes her hair slowly, kisses the top of her head, and patiently waits for her to begin.  
She takes a deep, calming breath and finally looks at him. 

“It was just something Trixie said and I can’t get it out of my head.”

Patrick frowns. “Nurse Franklin says a lot of things and they don’t normally bother you. What happened?”

Shelagh nestles her head against his chest. “She said you treat me like glass,” she mutters. 

“She said I’m an ass?”

Shelagh silently curses him and scowls. “No, she said you treat me like I’m made of glass.”

Patrick’s eyes crinkle and confusion spreads across his face. “Glass? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sometimes I feel like you put me on a pedestal. I’m not a nun anymore; I’m just an ordinary woman. Whenever there’s something that might be upsetting, you want to take care of it immediately and don’t wait to see how I could handle it on my own.” Her voice cracks slightly. “Like you’re afraid I might shatter into a million pieces at the slightest wrong thing. I’m not breakable, Patrick.”

He runs a hand through his hair a few times and remains obviously puzzled about his wife’s discontent. 

“I’m sorry, I still don’t understand what you mean. What does this have to do with our visit?”

She extracts herself carefully from his arms and turns away. “Something happened at the shop we went to earlier, and I didn’t want to tell you about it.”

“The bakery where we bought that ridiculously expensive tart? Don’t tell me they overcharged us, my wallet is still depressingly empty.” He pauses, scratches his head, and tries to recount exactly what happened in the bakery that Shelagh insisted they stop at before going to Nonnatus earlier that day. The bakery made a raspberry tart that the other nuns were apparently fond of, and Shelagh was so blissfully elated about her recent reconciliation with her sisters that she wanted to bring something special for afternoon tea.

“As I recall, I had to bravely forge a path through a mob of mad cake enthusiasts. Why did you leave me with those vultures anyway?” he says.

Her cheeks flush bright pink in embarrassment. “I…just had to step outside and get some air.”

“I could have used some of the gas and air after dealing with that crowd,” he comments darkly. “But I didn’t know you were claustrophobic though.”

“I’m not,” she squeaks. “It was something I overheard from a group of women near the cake displays.”

“Did they insult your taste in pastries? Tim and I could track them down to avenge your honor.”

“They were talking about us.”

He’s about to throw out another flippant remark until her words reach his brain. He narrows his eyes and chooses his next words carefully. “What exactly were they talking about, Shelagh?”

“I don’t want you to think I’m thin-skinned, Patrick. I don’t care if someone says a cruel remark about me; I’m generally quite resilient about that kind of thing.”

“What were they talking about?” he repeats ominously.

“I might have misheard some of the words, it was so loud and busy—“

He stops her and flicks on a lamp from his bedside table. “I don’t think you’re hard of hearing, I think you’re stalling.”

“They said something to the effect of how perfect it was that I was buying a tart considering my recent behavior with you.”

Patrick’s face reddens and his mouth twists into an awful grimace. “Excuse me?”

“I think they were calling me a—“

“I know what they meant!” he roars. He slams his hand into the mattress and barks, “Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me sooner? Is this what you talked to the other girls about? You could tell them but not me?”

Shelagh’s expression freezes into a steely glare that he thinks is eerily similar to Sister Julienne. “I did tell them, and this is exactly what they predicted would happen. The most important people in my life seem to think I’m quite delicate since I left Nonnatus, hence Trixie’s observation.” Her lips thin into a tense line as she adds, “Everyone seems to treat me like I might break if they aren’t careful.” 

“I almost lost you once, I swore to myself I would never let anything hurt you ever again,” he states angrily.

“I don’t need you to protect me! I’ve seen the best and worst of people, you know that. I want to stand beside you when there’s conflict, not behind.” Her eyes are blazing with a passion and ferocity that he hasn’t seen since their triumph with the health board many months ago. 

“You want me to let you get hurt? To let you suffer if there’s something I can do to stop it? Shelagh, I’m a physician. I never want my patients to be in pain if they don’t have to be.”

“I don’t want you to tell me things are perfect if something’s wrong. I want you to tell me the truth, even if it’s ugly. And don’t patronize me, I’m your wife not a patient,” she spits angrily.

“How can I not be angry? They insulted me, they slandered you, goddamn it. You expect me to let you take this kind of disrespect passively?!” he yells. 

They’re both quiet and a melancholic mood settles over the room. She realizes he’s never raised his voice like that with her. Of course she’s seen him upset and angry before; she remembers how incensed he was when Meg Carter slapped her, and how touched she was when he immediately tried to defend her. He tried to protect her even before they knew that the platonic boundary between them rapidly crumbled away. 

For his part, he’d never really seen her temper flare like this. It wasn’t that religious life eliminated her emotions, but the past ten years taught her to control her feelings so she could project a visage of serenity and compassion. Today certainly wasn’t the first time either of them dealt with a distressing situation and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. But what was different about this particular incident that made them lash out at each other like this? What had changed between them? Cold dread clenches in her stomach as she contemplates how to bridge their sudden détente.

She briefly contemplates sleeping downstairs for the remainder of the night just to give him some space after her harsh words. She was new to being in a relationship but she wasn’t completely naïve either. She wasn’t wearing rose-colored lenses when she agreed to marry him; she knew there would be difficulties they would have to navigate together. 

Another jagged bolt of lightning flashes outside and she flinches. Her eyes fall to her bedside table, where her glasses case and a set of prayer beads are neatly placed atop her Bible. She’s vulnerable now, she realizes. Emerging from a cloistered life and shedding her religious garb and trappings was akin to going to battle without armor, perhaps in both their minds. Her place in Patrick’s life had shifted from comrades-in-arms to wife in a short amount of time, and his zealous desire to protect her only strengthened and solidified once they were married. Theirs was a relationship forged in silence and subtle gestures, but what kind of life would that leave them with now? To grow together, to communicate her deepest fears and desires without worrying about reprisal, wasn’t that what she truly wanted between the two of them? Now they could be honest with each other, which was something she had yearned for after months of ambiguity. 

After a few anxious minutes, Patrick quietly recites, 

_“Love is patient, love is kind_  
_It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud_  
_It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking_  
_It is not easily angered, it keeps no records of wrongs.”_

He smiles sheepishly and cups her face tenderly with his hands. “I hope I didn’t muddle any of that. Sister Julienne made sure I memorized at least a few verses after she found out I was courting you.” 

A few tears leak from her eyes and he kisses them away. They bow their heads together and hold each other silently as the maelstrom outside fades to softly falling rain. 

“Shelagh, my heart, you are everything to me,” he says softly. “I let myself get carried away by anger, and I thought I was doing what was best. I’m so sorry.” 

“And that’s why I brought it up. We have to talk about these kinds of things and not keep them bottled up inside. I’ve kept too many feelings to myself for so long, I’m not used to sharing them with anyone still.” Relief beams across her face as she wipes away more stray tears.

“I’m glad we’re talking now. We won’t solve these problems in one night—“

“But we’ve made a start,” she finishes. He remembers the end of a similar conversation on a deserted road in the misty countryside. They knew so much more about each other since then, and clearly there was plenty more to talk about. But at least they were making a start together, and that was what really mattered. 

“You never asked me what I said to those women before we left,” she says as he embraces her from behind. 

He kisses the back of her neck fondly. “What did you say, love?” 

“I said we’ve always been fond of tarts at Nonnatus.”

Patrick rolls with loud, raucous laughter for several minutes while picturing the shocked reactions to his wife’s biting riposte.

“Have I ever told you how sexy it is when you’re bold?” he laughs. 

There’s a glint in her eyes after he says that. He’s seen it a few times before, usually before his wife suggests doing something mildly dangerous. They may still be discovering the more physical aspects of their relationship and she was gradually becoming more confident behind closed doors; he was always a firm believer in the thought that practice makes perfect, however. Her eyes suddenly go dark and hazy with arousal, and in one smooth motion, she wraps a leg around his torso and moves to straddle him. 

_Well, this is new,_ he thinks. 

She kisses him chastely at first. He pulls her closer and tangles his hands in her soft hair. Suddenly she shoves him back into the mattress, carefully sets her glasses down on the night table, and flicks the lamp on his bedside table off. The only light source in the room is her flawless pale skin and he’s completely entranced at the sight. 

“Do you really think I might break if you aren’t careful?” 

She smirks and lunges at him, biting down hard on his bottom lip and raking her nails down his bare chest. Her actions are primal and he’s secretly delighted by her sudden boldness. His breath hitches and he grasps her waist tightly as she savagely bruises his collarbone with furious kisses. This is definitely not how he thought this conversation would end. Adrenaline and white-hot desire flood his body as she grinds down onto his thigh. He’s dizzy with arousal and words are impossible now with her hands roving down his shoulders and back, but he desperately needs to tell her, show her, do something to convey how badly he wants her. The night is once again filled with glorious potential. He immediately shoves away any thoughts of going back to sleep; they may both be exhausted come sunrise, but he vaguely recalls a quote about there being no rest for the wicked, indeed. 

Their eyes lock together and she smiles wolfishly at him.

“Let me show you how real I am.” 

***

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Writing is somewhat like riding a bike; you do it once, you can’t forget it again. I thought I closed the book on fanfiction and writing once I graduated college, but then there came along a show that inspired me to put pen to paper again. I adore Call the Midwife and all things Turnadette. As an FYI, the majority of this story was written before I finished series 3, so please consider this AU in light of a conversation in the same vein from the end of that series. The quote at the beginning is from Anton Chekhov, and the bible verse at the end is 1 Corinthians 13:4-8. Any errors are my own and comments are welcome. Thank you for reading.


End file.
